


on hozier and freshly baked bread

by introspectivebeet



Series: Journal Series [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cottagecore, Distance, Established Relationship, F/F, cottagecore lesbians, i love them, pining but also not?, they're lesbians :), they're so gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28403901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introspectivebeet/pseuds/introspectivebeet
Summary: An excerpt from cottagecore lesbian Yachi Hitoka's journal.
Relationships: Shimizu Kiyoko/Yachi Hitoka
Series: Journal Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080272
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	on hozier and freshly baked bread

Why is it that I’m forced to exist in this mortal shell? I wish for nothing more than to become one with the moss in a forest. 

It’s not that I want to die, no, but I want to escape the claws of expectations, to escape everything others want me to be but I never will. It’s not my job to be the vessel through which others live vicariously, and I’m sick of it.

Physically, I’m in my bedroom, but mentally I am in the 1870’s, living in a little cottage in the countryside with my beautiful girlfriend. If we end up in history books we will be considered beautiful best friends but the sapphics will know the truth. 

I miss her touch, I want her head in my lap once more while I play with her hair and we listen to Hozier’s  _ Cherry Wine _ play softly through my speakers. I miss the feel of her in my arms, I miss the strawberry-flavoured kisses that we shared in the park on an old picnic blanket. 

I want to sit in a field with her, sundress moving with the wind, the sun’s light gripping desperately to the horizon. I want to go peach picking with her, to bake yet another tart and end up in a flour fight, again. I want to listen to 50’s music and dance in our little tacky kitchen, being spun in her arms.

I want to watch her eyes smile when I compliment her, to watch the blush creep up to the tips of her ears, to tuck her hair back and caress her cheek. I miss the touch of her lips on my own, the way her hands felt in my hair.

For our last date, the day before she left for university, we baked bread with her grandmother. The recipe was a family tradition and yet I was entrusted with it. Rosemary and sage and bay filled the kitchen, and the rest of her family joined us for our feast of warm, freshly-baked bread and compound butter and honey.

Her laugh is like none other and one of my favourite sounds. It’s pure, innocent, filled with a childish joy. It’s so opposite to the way she acts when outside of her comfort zone, which is almost everywhere. I’ve seen her at her happiest, at her most depressed, at her most anxious and at her angriest. I’m one of the few who has been awarded this luxury and though she ensures me that she will not tire of me I can’t help but doubt myself.

I miss whispering memorized prose to her between kisses, I miss hearing her gasps as my teeth met her flesh, I miss getting drunk on the look in her half-lidded eyes. I miss catching her tears when we watch a movie that’s perhaps just a bit too sad. 

I miss her, and everything that she is, and everything that she isn’t. Without her by my side I want nothing more than for the earth to simply swallow me whole. Tokyo is far from Miyagi, but the distance I feel in my heart is even greater.

Sure, I have my best friends, I have my duties as manager, I have my classwork and my chores, but none of this can ease any of the pain being so far removed from the object of my love; rather, the pain is multiplied every time I hear a song that we both enjoyed and every time I eat anything with strawberries in it.

I am so helplessly in love with her, with her touch, with the words we whisper to each other, with her laugh and with the sparkle in her eyes. I’m in love with the fact that she only wears vanilla brown sugar perfume because I said it was my favourite on her. I’m in love with the fact that she sends me handwritten letters with pressed flowers and new hair clips and yet she still makes time to call me each and every night, regardless of her university and work schedule.

I am in love with her, and that is a fact I am willing to shamelessly admit time and time again, especially if it meant I got to hold her in my arms once more. 

_ -Excerpt from Yachi Hitoka’s journal _


End file.
